


Shift

by misspamela



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misspamela/pseuds/misspamela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Middle-aged!” Molly said. He was, of course, but when Molly thought “middle-aged,” she thought “paunchy, balding, wears jogging bottoms.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shift

It was hard, working in a morgue. Not because of all the dead bodies; you got used to that after a while, and Molly was fresh out of school when she went into the medical examiner’s office. She’d been up to her elbows in cadavers for ages.

No, it wasn’t the work, which was interesting and important, but it was the hours. Oh, the hours were terrible. Nights, weekends, being on call. There was no chance for a social life and she could never make it through a film without falling asleep. And sometimes she ended up wanting a drink after you got out of work, except that was nine in the morning.

Noon was a perfectly acceptable time to be in the pub, though, so after a particularly grisly bus accident and the long night-into-day that went after it, Molly found herself stumbling into the nearest pub and motioning tiredly to the bartender. “Cider, please,” she said, bumping up into the man beside her. Right, of course she managed to knock into the one man at the bar.

“Oh!” she said, after getting a better look at him. “Detective Inspector, I’m so sorry.”

“I think we can dispense with titles at this point,” he said, raising his glass to her. “Cheers.”

The barman slid her cider across the bar. She nodded gratefully at him, then dropped into the seat next to Lestrade.

“Bus crash?” he asked. He’d only taken a small sip of his beer. “Heard it was a nasty one.”

“All those parts,” she agreed. “They don’t quite look like people, really, after a while.” She rolled her neck, trying to twist the kinks out. On her second pass to the right, she caught a look at Lestrade. He seemed to be staring blankly into the bubbles of his beer.

“Everything all right?” she asked. “I mean, you don’t seem the liquid lunch type.”

“The divorce is final today.” Lestrade turned his glass around in neat, precise circles on the bar. “It’s not a surprise,” he said, a half-apologetic smile faltering and dying on one corner of his mouth. “Really, it’s been a long time coming. No reason it should hit me so hard just to see her signature, but...” he shrugged.

“Oh.” Molly winced. She pushed his drink closer. “No, I think that calls for a drink.”

“That’s what I told myself.” Lestrade shrugged. “But then I realized; isn’t that just the picture of a cliche? A middle-aged, pathetic, lonely man, drowning his sorrows at noon in a pub. Takes the fun out of it.”

“Middle-aged!” Molly said. He was, of course, but when Molly thought “middle-aged,” she thought “paunchy, balding, wears jogging bottoms.”

“But you’re not middle-aged at all!” she said, leaning forward and touching his arm. “You’re fit and lovely. And you’re the brightest detective on the force.”

“Sherlock Holmes would say that’s not a high bar to jump over.” He smiled, looking up at her. “Fit and lovely?”

Molly could feel the blush rising in her cheeks. “Well, you know. Yes? And don’t listen to Sherlock Holmes.” She sighed. “God knows I wish I didn’t.”

She looked down at her cider. There was a blurry shine at the left-hand corner, where it caught the light above the bar. She focused on that, and not on the tight feeling in her chest and the tears that threatened to spill over. Molly Hooper, you are a fool.

Something cool and wet touched her hand, making her jump. It was Lestrade’s fingers, slick from the condensation on his glass. “I wish you didn’t,” he said. “Listen to Sherlock, that is. He’s-- he’s always correct, but he’s not always right.”

The tight feeling eased a little and she was able to swallow past it. “You’re so kind,” she said.

“Not at all.” He pulled his hand away, quicker than she’d have liked. “You’re beautiful and clever, and you have better prospects than some antisocial git who’s probably shagging his flatmate.”

“Do you think--?” She wasn’t sure; she’d heard the rumours, but it never seemed more than just department talk. And John had girlfriends... “It would make me feel better if it was true,” she admitted.

“Who knows,” he said. He sat up straight and looked her in the eyes. How had she never noticed how nice his eyes were? Dark and piercing and soft around the edges. “All I know is that you deserve better.”

 

“Well,” she said, raising her glass. “Here’s to deserving better. For both of us.”

Lestrade raised his glass. “Cheers,” he said. He took a sip, then set it back down. “You know, I’m not really in the mood for drowning my spirits anymore,” he said. “And you look like you’re about to fall over from exhaustion. Can I give you a lift back to your flat? I swear, I’ve only had half a beer.”

“That would be lovely, thank you.” Molly wished she wasn’t so tired. It felt like something could happen, like she was on the edge of something big that she couldn’t quite see. She yawned, her jaw cracking. “Sorry I can’t invite you in for coffee. I’m knackered.”

“I can see that,” he said, holding her coat for her. His hands lingered briefly on her shoulders as she slipped it on. Such a fool, she told herself. Not seeing what was right in front of your nose.

“Maybe next time?” she asked, as she slung her bag over her shoulder.

Lestrade -- Greg -- walked ahead of her and held the door open. “Next time,” he said. “That sounds -- yeah, yeah. Next time.”

The day looked odd, as she got into the car. Like it should have been pitch-dark instead of the weak, white sun of a late January afternoon. Everything looked tilted and strange, like she was seeing it through a mirror. Up is down, right is wrong, a sure sign that she needed to get some sleep and face things in the morning.

Looking over at Greg, she caught him looking at her. he looked away fast and she smiled, curling up into the door of his car. For the first time in a long time, she would have something nice to tuck away into her heart and carry into her dreams.

And dream she did, as the noise of the traffic and the hum of the car carried her off to sleep.


End file.
